Selfish
by Tifereth-Wolfe
Summary: I felt the salty water slipping from my eyes to fall down my cheeks, to end up against my oh so beloved papers, guardians of my lovestories, of my fantasies, of my deep thoughts.
1. Prelude

I gripped something with my hands. I don't remember what. I remember I was sitting on my favourite chair, in front of my papers, deciding if I should write something, or just go to bed. Bed. Sleep. It sounded too wonderful to be truth, something too wonderful to happen to me, specially that night. I remember I was sitting on my favourite chair, listening to God knows what instrumental Blues CD. I was there, trying to remember, to imagine, some of tose love-stories I loved to write, adventures, fantasies, hopes even. Something that would look remotely intellectual and deep.

Nothing would come into my mind.

Truth was... I missed him. It hurt not to see him.

I pretended not to know, just to fool myself, why I missed him. To keep my mind wandering. I didn't know why I was furious with him. I did not know why jealousy invaded my heart like some kind of thick, disgusting liquid, drowning it in the most obscure, putrid substance there was. It wasn't hatred. It wasn't pity. It wasn't anything like I'd felt since I began to talk to him, since I began loving him with an horrid devotion, in a completely passionate, yet abstract, unreachable distance relationship.

For some odd reason, I hated when people talked to him, took him away from my reach, from my knowledge, and though, even if I could not help it, I detested them all. I used to ''share'' him with a friend, a very good friend. But still, it was not the same. I never in my whole relationship with him had felt...

...Displaced.

Left behind. Felt like a fool. Never. And that was what made him that special, that was what made me adore him with such unconditionality.

That's why I always wanted people to know him, I introduced him proudly, and yet, never, ever left him alone with anyone, out of fear, out of selfishness, out of...cowardice. Lack of confidence.

He never once allowed me to feel bad, he would always try to help me, he would always keep that creative fiber in my heart, and he, with his immaculate image in the dephts of my soul, was motive of my worship.

I wished I could scream at him, and cry, and blame him for anything. Everything! But it was useless. I could not blame him for a decision that was not mine to make. I could not blame him for wanting to help another person, I could not blame him for wanting to emphatize with someone who was not me.

I could not blame him for needing to let me a side.

And, do you want to know something?

It was my fault.

I felt anger arise in me, and screamed at him, and shook angry fists at the other person, wishing she would die, wishing she could leave Him and me alone, to continue with our endless nights where we used to write and laugh, and talk, and laugh again, and began imagining, and creating, with my promises of taking him far away in a car, where we could go living elsewhere, alone, to make him happy. But, truth was... we were just making me happy. Because... It was me. All for me.

And, would you want to know another thing?

I knew. And it hurt.

It was my fault I lost him, it was my fault I couldn't keep him, it was me and my possesiveness. It was me and my constant need of him.

I let my head land against the dark wood of the desk, my skull sounding loudly against the hard material. I let my eyes slid close with a dispassionate, defeated shrug. I felt my muscles giving into my inner pain, my already jaded, useless train of thoughts.

I had lost him.

I felt warm, thin, bitter water clouding my common coffee orbs, still protected beneath the eyelids. I felt the salty water slipping from my eyes to fall down my cheeks, to end up against my oh so beloved papers, guardians of my love-stories, of my fantasies, of my deep thoughts. I let my own hands release their grip from... whatever I was grabbing, and let them rest on the top of the wood, exhausted. I was tired of being me.

I wanted to cry.

The night urged me to do so.

And I had lost him.

I hated me, and my promises of a better life, I hated me, and my inability to share him, I hated me. Me.

For I lost him.

-C.M.


	2. She was staring back

He failed to see what was it what he liked about her.

She was smart, yes. Her vocabulary was exquisite, yes. She was cultured and intelligent, yes. She had the best marks in whole Howarts, yes.

And yet, that, was not the reasons a man of his age liked women. They liked them for their legs, their faces, the size of her breasts, their way of moving, their grace.

Oddly enough, this was not the case.

Not that he was all that bad. Her face was round, yet somehow according with the rest of her torso, her eyes were big, with long, luxuriously long, dark eyelashes, her lips, naturally rosey, and full, being tortured by her slightly oversized teeth, perpetually capturing them, to tug on them without mercy, signal of her constant thought-sinking habits, her hands clasping for anything that would look like a pen, to take notes during classes, or a book, or anything that would involve expanding her knowledge; honey coloured orbs dancing along the letters of each text, in order to bring the information to her brain, for it to process it... She never stopped. As simple as that.

He guessed that THAT was what was so... enticing about her.

He guessed that it wasn't that her messy, wavy, dark hair swirled around her face, framing it gently when she made the slightest of moves, the reddish reflects that her hair formed when it was kissed by the sun, the paleness of her seemingly smooth skin, the tone of her voice, so feminine and smooth, yet slightly childish, as a child who had decided that THAT tone, was going to define her as an adult in front of her parents, as soon she opened her mouth.

It was not that everything of her irradiated confidence, and being able not to let it seem as her ego's actions, instead of hers alone.

But then again, it was just a guess.

He could have been misundestanding her.

Likewise, it did not matter.

He still despised her. Right?

...Right?

Draco Malfoy found himself staring shamelessly at the Gryffindor Head Girl, the girl who he had been describing in so detailed manner in his mind a few moments ago.

And she... Was staring back.

He found himself being unable to look away, holding that chocolate, deep gaze of hers.

Potions classes did not matter, not it mattered the casual glances of their classmates, it did not matter that they were far, so far away, one in one corner of the dungeons, the other in the opposite corner. It didn't matter that they hated eachother. It did not matter that Snape was discounting points from Gryffindor and yelling about some condiment for the sleep potion added wrongly.

The hours passed... and passed...

And she was staring back.


	3. Careless

**Hermyohnee**: If you're reading this, I just have one thing to say: Amusing thoughts from someone who is unable to spell "Hermione''correctly.

**For the other replies,** no matter if they were in 'Night After' or 'Selfish', thank you very much. Make sure other friends read them ;)

Selfish:

Hit. Hit. Hit.

It was inevitable. It was constant. It was maddening. It was fiery. And it didn't forgive.

Hit. Hit. Hit.

Rain drops impacted against the glasses of the opened window. Against the floor of the room. Against her face. Her neck. Her bare shoulders. Her hands, so firmly gripping the edges of the window. Provoking her untamed hair to stick to her wet flesh.

Hit. Hit. Hit.

Her chest rose and fell with the heavy movements of her breathing rhythm. Ragged.

The frozen water mixed with the one slipping from her eyes, down her checks, being washed away by the rain, washing away the warmth, washing away the only lame, pathetic attempt of getting rid of her frustration. Her lips parted to let a long, frustrated scream from the dephts of her troath, her voice breaking the silence, shattering it to pieces, resounding through the cieiling, filling the spaces surrounding her, to, suddenly die. As is someone had cast a spell to stop the noise, as suddenly as it appeared.

No more black eyes staring in her chocolate coloured ones. No more rough, large hands caressing her hair. No more strong arms wrapping around her small form. No more.

Her hands curled into fist, before connecting with the edge of the window, brutally, almost, her knuckles aching slightly at the impact, head falling backwards.

Viktor Krum was no longer part of her life.

And what was worse, she did not care. She did not care at all. Since she found her dark gaze held by his grey, stormy one. Since she saw, for the first time; no rage, no despise. He seemed...

Amazed.

But he hated her.

Didn't he?

...Of course he did.

He had to.

She wanted to hate him, again. And again. And _again. _She wanted to blame him for what happened with Viktor. And oh, did she want to.

All she managed to get was another ache. This time right in the chest. Loathe. Not at him. Not at Viktor.

At herself.

Because, even if she cried...

She didn't care. She didn't care at all.


End file.
